


Aftercare

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Kidnapping, M/M, Mycroft Feels, No Case Fic, No Smut, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Feels, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26317156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock is informed by Anthea that Mycroft has been kidnapped. It turns out that his help is needed in another way than he had imagined.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 156





	Aftercare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



“Sherlock. Sherlock!”

The detective looked up. He had not been looking at his phone. He had not been looking at anything. And he had probably missed his friend speak to him for quite some time, judging by his annoyed expression. “John. Anything the matter?”

John sighed. “You know, I think you should see someone.” He was grabbing the armrests of his chair with both hands, and he was looking at Sherlock with this stern Doc-Watson-look that Sherlock so wasn’t fond of, which was only partly diminished by the fact that a toddler was playing with the collar of his ugly jumper.

And now he was seriously suggesting… “Sorry what?”

The second sigh was even deeper. “Not like that. A therapist. This is not normal.” He rolled his eyes at Sherlock's humourless laughter. “Yeah, I get that. Nothing’s normal about you. But… I don’t see why… you are so depressed?”

“Who says I’m depressed? I’m just bored.” A therapist… Great idea. Like the last one John had seen…

John shook his head. “Nah. I know ‘bored’, believe me. Witnessed it for years. This is more. But… why? It’s not because of me?”

Sherlock rubbed his face with both hands. “Why should it be about you? We’re fine. I think. Aren’t we?” He was so tired. Not merely physically. Just so… tired.

“Yes. And that’s the point. I mean… Lots of shit has happened to us.”

“Do tell.”

“All forgiven. Isn’t it?”

Sherlock had never thought he had to forgive John for anything. He knew that his friends thought differently about that… And John had apologised to him when the dust had settled. But he _had_ caused Mary’s death after all. He hadn’t wanted it. But it had happened because he just couldn’t shut up… Anyway. “Yes. No resentments.”

“Do you…” John huffed out a laugh. “Do you… want… more?”

“What?” This conversation was getting worse and worse, and it hadn’t been pleasant to begin with.

John confirmed his suspicion. “I mean… from me?”

“No!”

John looked relieved. “Good. Because… I couldn’t.”

“I didn’t _ask_ you for it,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. He got up. “I think it is better if I go out for a while.” When had he last left his flat? How long had he been sitting in his chair? Judging by the stiffness of his legs, for longer than it was advisable.

“Tell me what’s wrong with you. Please.”

John looked seriously unhappy, and Sherlock would have liked to shut him up with an answer that would placate him. But in fact, he had no idea what was wrong with him, and he did concede that something was indeed off.

He couldn’t sleep. He had no interest in cases. At least not in the mind-numbingly boring ones that had been thrown his way since… Sherrinford… He had no appetite. He was not even keen on getting high… Yes. Something was off but he didn’t know what.

John was staring at him. “I mean, you don’t even go seeing your sister anymore. Whatever you thought you’d gain from that in the first place.”

Going to Sherrinford was pointless. It had made his parents forgive Mycroft, which was a good outcome, but it had done nothing to improve Eurus’… state. If smiling and not saying a word and do nothing but playing the violin or staring into nothingness was a state. He had wanted to be a good big brother for her, and if that wasn’t funny…

“I mean, she didn’t deserve your attention if you ask me.”

Sherlock didn't want to talk about Eurus. Or anything, actually. He turned to finally leave to get some peace and quiet when the phone in his jacket pocket chirped, and he pulled it out with little enthusiasm.

“Oh. Lestrade?” John asked and shifted Rosie on his knees.

Sherlock stared at the display. “No. It’s Anthea.”

“Who? Oh, Mycroft's PA. Thought that wasn’t her real name?”

John did have a good memory – if attractive women were concerned. He had not seen Mycroft's PA for ages. “It is. Her real name. She just says that to confuse people. Hello?” Sherlock listened for a few seconds. “You’re kidding me. When?… Who is on it?… We’ll be there as soon as we can. Send me all you ha-… Oh, you just did, well, I’ll be looking into it on the way. Bye.”

“And?” John asked, looking confused. “What did she want?”

“Someone kidnapped my brother.”

*****

“So you’re saying a terror cell nobbled the British Government?”

“Quiet, John. It’s not a cabbie’s business.” Damn… The traffic was murderous on Friday afternoon. Sherlock could barely resist the urge to tell the driver to go faster but he knew it to be futile. They had already lost precious time with getting Mrs Hudson to cancel her bridge afternoon to look after Rosie and now they were stuck in fucking traffic...

“Sorry. So?”

Sherlock stored his phone after his eyes had been glued to it for the past ten minutes. “It would seem so. Mycroft decided to take a very important figure of their network out and that was their revenge.”

John fumbled with his seatbelt. “But how did they even know about him? I mean, he’s basically a string puller in an office in the cellar in a totally secure building.”

“Apparently a double agent was involved. They didn't give me all the information, don’t be naive. They will tell me what I need to know to find him. As Anthea fears they won’t manage themselves.” He had heard the undertone of true desperation. The kidnapping had not just happened. Mycroft had been in those people’s hands for more than two days. Why had they not informed him at once instead of getting people on it who couldn’t find their behinds with a flashlight?

But they were in for a surprise. Waved through by the security guards at the gate, they found Mycroft's office in hectic activity. Several people were discussing with each other in a low tone, Mycroft’s colleagues, the grey-haired woman and the bald man, among them, glancing at Sherlock as if he was a bug. But he could deduce at once that the British Government had been found, and not in neat little pieces.

Anthea was hardly recognisable with severely tousled hair and a pale face, showing the signs of several sleepless nights. Her right hand was cramping around her ever-present phone. “Oh, Sherlock. It’s over. They got him.” She shook her head. “I totally forgot to let you know, sorry. We found out where he is the minute we stopped talking. It was a matter of not even fifteen minutes to get him out.”

“That’s great,” said John, casually flattening his hair.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. His flatmate had still not figured out that she wasn’t into men? Not that he cared about that now. “How is he?”

“Okay, I think. His kidnappers were all taken out.”

‘ _Killed’_ , she meant. And she was still not telling him everything. “Where is my brother?”

She gave him a smile that looked too innocent. “Oh, I’ve just finished a video call with him, and he told me that he will go home. It’s Friday anyway so he can relax a bit until Monday.”

That was off. Mycroft would have insisted on coming to the office to take care of the aftermath of this mess. Dead kidnappers or not, there was obviously a lot to clean up, as this bunch of people murmuring into phones and with each other a few metres away from them were proving. And Sherlock didn't really know about his brother’s work hours but he doubted very much that he only showed up in his office from Monday till Friday, 9 to 5. “Is he injured?”

“Listen, he’s fine. I’m sorry I bothered you. You can leave again now and we…” She winced when Sherlock grabbed her by the shoulders; her phone slipped out of her hand and landed on the carpet with a thud.

“What is that you’re not telling me?”

“Sherlock…”

“Shut up, John. So?”

She bit his lip. “He refused to go to the hospital. He said he’s totally unharmed and since there is nobody left to bring charges against, nothing has to be documented so he won’t waste his time with it. His words.”

Sherlock felt his left eyelid twitch, and he blinked heftily. He let the woman go as his hands slid off her arms by themselves. It wasn’t what she had said but what she had _not_ said. Not with her voice, that is… “So you’re saying he wasn’t examined and you think that -…” He couldn’t speak it out. Couldn’t have for the life of him. And why had he even asked? He had seen it in her eyes. She had to know his brother really well if she had gotten this from a video call. Probably she did know him better than anyone in his own family...

“I don’t know. I… I hope not.” Her voice was so quiet that he could hardly understand her words but that really didn't matter.

John gasped beside him, having understood the implications. “Shit.”

“Please. Leave him alone. He knows best how to deal with it. Nobody but me even suspects it.”

Sherlock stared at her as she was rubbing her right shoulder. “You really think so?”

She lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together, and that was answer enough.

*****

Sherlock tried to ignore his shaking legs. His elevated heart beat. His knowledge that he was so far out of his depth that it felt like being in a parallel universe. What was he doing here? What did he think he could offer his brother? Who certainly didn't want to see anybody now, and least of all him.

It didn't stop him. He had failed at making a connection with Eurus. He had failed at basically all relationships in his life. He had nothing to say to his parents when he couldn’t avoid meeting them in the first place. Molly wasn’t talking to him anymore. Mary was dead. He had found his truce with John, which he was grateful for, but the ease of their early days was gone for good. His relationship with his brother had been troubled for a long time to say the least. And still Mycroft had never dropped him. And had shown how far he was willing to go for Sherlock in Sherrinford. It was time to give something back to him.

Even though he had no fucking clue how…

He had a key to his brother’s house but he didn’t use it, naturally. He was not that thick.

Of course there were cameras above the door; that was to be expected from a man who valued control over everything. Sherlock looked up to one of them and waited for a moment, but nothing happened, so he rang the doorbell. And did it again when there was no response. Of course Mycroft could have gone somewhere else. But Sherlock was sure that he was there.

Eventually, the door opened up. Sherlock scanned his brother within a second. He was not wearing a suit but plain black trousers and a grey linen shirt, no tie, no waistcoat, no arm garters. His hair was impeccably styled and nothing in his appearance reminded of a man who had been in the capture of a terroristic group until about three hours ago.

At least not until one could see his eyes. Sherlock had seen that look before. In the eyes of victims.

Mycroft gazed at Sherlock and he saw at once that he _knew_ , and it was as if he was _dying_ in front of Sherlock. A flicker of such deep pain, embarrassment and shame that Sherlock felt as if his heart had been stabbed by a knife appeared in those clear-blue irises before his shields closed so hard that it resembled the striking of a guillotine.

“Sherlock… Leave.” His voice was raspy and barely audible.

And even though everything in him cried for him to turn and do as he was told and just _run_ from this hurt and horror, Sherlock raised the bag he was holding in his hand. “Can I stay with you for a few days?”

“What?”

“John’s driving me crazy. He even asked me if I wanted him to be my… you know what.”

Mycroft stared at him as if he thought that Sherlock was indeed crazy. Their eyes had locked and neither of them blinked for what felt like an eternity, and then Mycroft’s shoulders slumped. “Come in,” he said, turning around, and Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he followed his brother into a house in which he had only been about three times in the last ten years – the last time to scare the truth about their sister out of his brother, upsetting and frightening him, and hadn’t that been a nice move?

And he wondered what damage he would do this time by trying to help...

*****

After hanging up his coat, Sherlock followed Mycroft into the living room, dropping his bag near the door.

His looks had taken in how his brother was walking – very stiffly. But not… as if he was in physical pain or even discomfort. Perhaps… _this_ had not happened – there were other ways to -… Or he just managed to not show it...

“Care for one?” Mycroft pointed at his glass, which obviously contained fine scotch. His expression was pure indifference.

“Sure. Did you eat anything?”

Mycroft gave him a disbelieving look. “ _You_ are asking _me_ if -…”

“I do.”

His brother turned his back to him to pour him a drink as well. “I’m fine, Sherlock.” His voice was calm. But there was an underlying shake to it that Sherlock had never heard before.

He handed the glass over and Sherlock took a sip before walking to his bag and rummaging in a side pocket, retrieving a paper bag. He could feel Mycroft's eyes follow his every movement. And under different circumstances, the look of surprise – and even awe? – in his eyes when he realised what Sherlock was holding out for him would have been comical.

“They’re good. I was told.” He had brought two thick tuna sandwiches that had cost more than he spent on food the entire week. “Share them with me?”

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. “That was nice of you. Come.”

They walked over to the more comfortable part of the generous room with a large black leather sofa as well as two matching armchairs on both sides of a long table. Mycroft sat down on the couch and gestured at one of the chairs but Sherlock ignored that and chose the couch as well – about a metre apart from his brother. Close enough to make a point. Not close enough to be intrusive – he hoped.

Mycroft still tensed but he didn't say anything. He wrapped the sandwiches out of the paper and handed one to Sherlock, touching it with one of the tissues that had been put into the bag as well.

Sherlock thanked him and they ate in silence. He was hyper aware of how his brother was holding himself, how he obviously had problems to swallow but didn’t want to show it. Clearly he had no appetite but to Sherlock's relief, he seemed to develop it while eating the surely very tasty meal.

When they were finished – Sherlock had made sure to eat the last bit when Mycroft did, too – they sat back. Still neither of them had spoken a word for minutes.

“You…,” Mycroft cleared his throat, “can have either of the guest rooms. There might be some dust but…”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s certainly much cleaner than my bedroom. Thank you.”

Mycroft seemed to be irked by his repeated use of words he had never said to him before. Sherlock could feel that his brother wanted to throw him out but was too polite to do it. Or perhaps a part of him did want Sherlock to stay?

Again it was Mycroft who broke the silence. “So… John… He wants to…”

“Oh, don’t worry about him. It was just a silly idea.” Sherlock didn't want him to think that John was really interested in him. The next moment he almost hit his own forehead, feeling like an idiot. “I mean… It was disturbing though. That’s why I came here and -…”

“Sherlock.”

It was back. The pain. Sherlock heard it in his voice, and when he looked at him, he saw it in his eyes, and it made his heart crumble. With one fluent movement, he was sitting close to Mycroft, not quite close enough to touch him but to show that if Mycroft wanted him to do so, he would be there.

And then Mycroft put his head onto his shoulder, and there were tears running down his cheeks, and Sherlock curled his arm around him, his throat tight, his heart pounding hard, but at the same time, he felt a weird gratitude to be allowed to spend comfort to a man who had always abhorred sentiment – and had still voiced it several times towards him. And maybe in general caring was not an advantage but between the two of them, it was a necessity.

Mycroft was not sobbing and sniffling. He was merely burying his face against Sherlock neck, his body shivering violently for a moment before he calmed down.

Sherlock was not mumbling silly words of comfort for something he had never experienced himself and had no idea how it had to make Mycroft feel. And he realised that he was feeling something else than sympathy for his big brother, who was used to being in control of every situation – if not his own family attacked him in any way – but had been helpless in the hands of terrorists. He was feeling red wrath for these people who had done this to his brother, had made him seek for Sherlock's comfort. How would he be feeling afterwards? Perhaps it would destroy their relationship for good. He had shown some weakness (or so it had to seem to him) in front of Sherlock before – by dealing with the clown and the dwarf, in Sherrinford when he had not been able to shoot the governor (not because he was weak but because he was decent but he wouldn’t see it like that) and in being meek in the presence of their furious parents afterwards. But this was a whole new level of having his real self exposed. It might make him turn his back to Sherlock for good. And that made Sherlock hate those people even more.

“I’m glad they’re dead,” he burst out, his arm firmly closed around Mycroft. “Or no – I would have loved to kill them myself!”

Mycroft lifted his head and stared at him with eyes full of amazement. And then he smiled, and Sherlock slumped in relief. No. It was not going to happen. Mycroft wouldn’t hate him for witnessing his alleged weakness. They would be fine.

And suddenly he knew why he had been feeling so low lately. Because Mycroft had been avoiding him. Had not shown up once to give him a case he wouldn’t have really needed his help on as he had done so often in the past. Because he had avoided him despite this moment in Sherrinford, this moment in which this strange, strong energy had flown between them, the moment in which Mycroft had wanted him to shoot him and Sherlock had known he would never do such a thing. He had felt so close to Mycroft in this moment. And then Mycroft had just disappeared apart from the appointment with their parents and going to Sherrinford with him and the elder Holmeses once. Sherlock had been feeling… neglected? No. It was more than that.

More…

Suddenly his throat felt completely dry. And the hand that reached out for the glass was shivering.

And of course Mycroft saw it, and his brow furrowed in confusion. Before he understood after once glance at Sherlock's suddenly reddened face. His eyes widened for just a moment and Sherlock closed his eyes in defeat for a second.

Mycroft had always been right – he was the smart one, and Sherlock had clearly been the slow one in deducing his own feelings. And now they had made an unmissable appearance in a moment that was as far away from being convenient as it could be. But of course there wasn’t a convenient time for admitting feelings that were simply unspeakable. Mycroft didn't need that. Not ever, but especially not now.

“I’m sorry,” he said, unable to keep silent as it seemed, only making the situation worse. “I just came because I thought I should help you and because I _wanted_ to do that, and because I missed you and because I -…” He finally broke off before he could say something unforgivable.

And then he felt Mycroft's hand on his cheek and his brother was staring into his eyes, and there was a myriad of emotions whirling in them. And they moved in the same second, moved towards each other, and for a moment, less than a second, their dry, warm lips met.

Sherlock's heart exploded with sentiment and he forgot to breathe when he realised what else he had missed. An endless stream of images of what could be and hopefully would be overflew his brain. And in his brother’s blue eyes he could read clearly what his brother was silently telling him – that it was not the right moment and that it would take time but that Mycroft would not go anywhere and that he did so, too: that he loved Sherlock, too.

And Sherlock turned so he could embrace his brother with both arms and Mycroft’s long arms closed around his waist and he put his head onto Sherlock's shoulder and so they were holding each other, and Sherlock felt a deep, all encompassing feeling of peace and hope and anticipation of everything that would be happening between them.

The End


End file.
